Joe Abercrombie - Sharp Ends

‘Take me for a fool, do you? Think I didn’t see Carcolf leaving here earlier?’

‘Carcolf? She just came cause she had a job … in Talins …’ Shev trailed off with that same feeling she’d felt when her hands slipped from Varini’s and she’d seen the ground flying up to greet her. Crandall’s men shifted, Pock-Face pulling a jagged-edged knife out, and Mason gave a grimace even bigger’n usual, and slowly shook his head.

Oh, God. Carcolf had finally fucked her. But not in a good way. Not in a good way at all.

Shev held her hands up, calming, trying to give herself time to think of something. ‘Look! You said get the satchel and I got it.’ She hated the whine in her voice. Knew there was no point begging but couldn’t help herself. Looked to the doors, the thugs slowly closing on her, knew the only question left was how bad they’d hurt her. Crandall stepped towards her, face twisting.

‘Look!’ she screeched, and he punched her in the side. Far from the hardest punch she’d ever taken, but as bad luck had it his fist landed right where the wagon had, there was a flash of pain through her guts and straight away she doubled up and puked all down his trousers.

‘Oh, that’s it , you fucking little bitch! Hold her.’

The one with the pocked face caught her left arm, and the one with the stupid coat her right, and stuck his forearm in her throat and pinned her against the wall, both of them grinning like it was a while since they’d had so much fun. Shev could’ve been enjoying herself more as Pock-Face waved his knife in her face, her mouth acrid with sick and her side on fire and her eyes crossed as she stared at the bright point.

Crandall snapped his fingers at Mason. ‘Give me your axe.’

Mason puffed his cheeks out. ‘More’n likely it’s that bitch Carcolf behind all this. Nothing Shevedieh could’ve done. We kill her she can’t help us find what we’re after, eh?’

‘It’s past business now,’ said Crandall, the little rat-faced nothing, ‘and on to teaching a lesson.’

‘What lesson will this teach? And to who?’

‘Just give me your fucking axe!’

Mason didn’t like it, but he made a living doing things he didn’t like. Wasn’t as if this crossed some line. His expression said, I’m real sorry , but he pulled out his hatchet and slapped the polished handle into Crandall’s palm anyway, turning away in disgust.

Shev twisted like a worm cut in half but could hardly breathe for the pain in her ribs, and the two bastards had her fast. Crandall leaned closer, caught a fistful of her shirt and twisted it. ‘I would say it’s been nice knowing you, but it fucking hasn’t.’

‘Try not to spatter me this time, boss,’ said Pock-Face, closing the bulging eye nearest to her so he didn’t get her brains in it.

Shev gave a stupid whimper, squeezing her eyes shut as Crandall raised the axe.

So that was it, then, was it? That was her life? A shit one, when you thought about it. A few good moments shared with halfway decent folk. A few small kindnesses done. A few little victories clawed from all those defeats. She’d always supposed the good stuff was coming. The good stuff she’d be given. The good stuff she’d give. Turned out this was all there was.

‘It is a long time since I last saw Prayer Bells.’

Shev opened her eyes again. The red-haired woman she’d dragged into her bed that morning and forgotten all about was standing larger than life in Shev’s smoking room in that ripped leather vest, peering at the bells on the shelf.

‘This is a very fine one.’ And she brushed the bronze with her scabbed fingertips. ‘Second Dynasty.’

‘Who’s this fucking joker?’ snarled Crandall, weighing the hatchet in his hand.

Her eyes shifted lazily over to him. Or the one eye Shev could see did, tangled red hair hanging across the other. That hard-boned face was spattered with bruises, the nose cut and swollen and crusted with blood, the lips split and bloated. But she had this look in that one bloodshot eye as it flickered across Crandall and his four thugs, lingered on Mason a moment, then away. An easy contempt. As though she’d taken their whole measure in that single glance, and wasn’t troubled by it one bit.

‘I am Javre,’ said the woman Shev found unconscious in her doorway. She had some strange kind of an accent. From up north somewhere, maybe. ‘Lioness of Hoskopp and, far from being a joker, I am in fact often told I have a poor sense of humour. Who put me to bed?’

Pinned against the wall by three men, the most Shev could do was raise one finger.

Javre nodded. ‘That was a kindness I will not forget. Do you have my sword?’

‘Sword?’ Shev managed to croak, the forearm across her throat easing off as its owner turned to sneer at the new arrival.

Javre hissed through her teeth. ‘It could be very dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. It is forged from the metal of a fallen star.’

‘She’s mad,’ said Crandall.

‘Fucking loon,’ grunted Hands-in-Pockets.

‘Lioness of Hoskopp,’ said Big Coat, and gave a little giggle.

‘I will have to steal it back,’ she was musing. ‘Do any of you know a decent thief?’

There was a pause, then Shev raised that one finger again.

‘Ah!’ Javre’s blood-clotted brow went up. ‘It is said the Goddess places the right people in each other’s paths.’ She frowned as though she was only just making sense of the situation. ‘Are these men inconveniencing you?’

‘A little,’ Shev whispered, grimacing at the dull ache that had spread from her side right to the tips of her fingers.

‘Best to check. You never can tell what people enjoy.’ Javre slowly worked her bare shoulders. They reminded Shev of the Amazing Zaraquon’s, too, woody hard and split into a hundred little fluttering shreds of muscle. ‘I will ask you once to put the dark-skinned girl down and leave.’

Crandall snorted. ‘And if we don’t?’

That one eye narrowed slightly. ‘Then long after we are gone to the Goddess, the grandchildren of the grandchildren of those who witness will whisper fearful stories of the way I broke you.’

Hands-in-Pockets shoved his hands down further still. ‘You ain’t even got a weapon,’ he snarled.

But Javre only smiled. ‘My friend, I am the weapon.’

Crandall jerked his head towards her. ‘Put this bitch out o’ my misery.’

Pock-Face and Big-Coat let go of Shev, which was a blessing, but closed in towards Javre, which didn’t seem to be. Big-Coat pulled a stick from his coat, which was a little disappointing since he had ample room for a greatsword in there. Pock-Face spun his jagged-edged dagger around in his fingers and stuck out his tongue, which was uglier than the blade, if anything.

Javre just stood, hands on her hips. ‘Well? Do you await a written invitation?’

Pock-Face lunged at her but his knife caught nothing. She dodged with a speed even Shev could hardly follow and her white hand flashed out and chopped him across the side of the neck with a sound like a cleaver chopping meat. He dropped as if he had no bones in him at all, knife bouncing from his hand, flopping and thrashing on the floor like a landed fish, spitting and gurgling and his eyes popping out further than ever.

Big-Coat hit her in the side with his stick. If he’d hit a pillar, that was the sound of it. Javre hardly even flinched. Muscle bulged in her arm as she sank her fist into his gut and he bent right over with a breathy wheeze. Javre caught him by the hair with her big right fist and smashed his head into Shev’s butcher-block counter, blood spattering the cheap hangings.

‘Shit,’ breathed Crandall, the hand he was holding Shev with going limp.